combined with an essential difference of habits and disposition between a rich heiress desirous of living as a great lady and a man of genius who was willing neither to rule in his own house nor be ruled; all this, fomented by the perfidious suggestions of the lady's companion or governess()-was it not enough to explain the discord between both? Where, in fact, the marvel that a marriage arranged by calculations of rank and of opinions (or of convenance) without regard to the heart's affections and sympathy of disposition and inclinations, should turn out ill? Is it not daily the case?

But the English, with whom marriage occupies position so different from that it holds with us; the English, who so frequently are witnesses of the recurrence of scandalous trials where witnesses are cited who have listened by the nuptial couch, or spied through the bath door, and who testify exactly how much and what they saw and heard; the English, who fix a tariff for payment of such injuries, could never pardon Byron for separating from his wife (7) without assigning a cause, without appearing in court to satisfy the greed of the lawyers and the curiosity of the public. They, therefore, vented their spleen in satirical on dits, in caricatures, in charging the poet with every possible kind of phrenzy and misdeed (). "My case was supposed to comprise all the crimes which could, and several which could not, be committed, and little less than an auto-da-fè was anticipated as the result (8). But let no man say that we are abandoned by our friends in adversity-it was just the reverse. Mine thronged around me to condemn, advise, and console me with their disapprobation. They told me all that was, would, or could be said on the subject. They shook their heads-they exhorted medeplored me, with tears in their eyes, and-went to dinner."

And yet how meanly was the posthumous work, which should have revealed the whole affair, denied to public expectation. All who have read the poetry of

(1) Mrs. Clermont (or Charlemont) whom he anathematizes in the sketch from private life.

(2) Moore's Life, 1830, p. 622, Vol. 2.

Byron well know how affectionately he often recurs to his wife.

Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
E'en though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee,
Where thy head so oft hath lain;
While that placid sleep came o'er thee,
Which thou ne'er canst know again!
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee,
Though it smile upon the blow;
E'en its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe. &c., &c.

This poem, which drew from Madame de Stael (3) the expression "I would willingly suffer what Lady Byron has done, to have inspired my husband with such beautiful verse," moved not the lady. The lyre of Orpheus will soften the pangs of hell, but not the heart of a proud woman. Had she not otherwise been wrong, we would not forgive her for having refused forgiveness to a husband who asked it, and such a husband. Such conduct could not but embitter his lot, and here we would introduce two compositions wherein is revealed the anguish of his mind. When, in 1816, he learned that Lady Byron was ill, it grieved him much, and he threw into the fire a satirical romance founded on the well-known story of Belphegor, but he afterwards wrote a poem (9) of which the prudence of Moore gave us only the first verses, but which is now usually published entire.

And thou wer't sad-yet I was not with thee!
And thou wer't sick, and yet I was not near;
Methought that joy and health alone could be

Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here! &c.

In 1821, from Pisa, he thus wrote to his wife :

Pisa, Nov. 17, 1821.

I have to acknowledge the receipt of Ada's hair, which is very soft and pretty, and nearly as dark already as mine was at 12 years old, if I may judge from what I recollect of some in Augusta's possession, taken at that age. But it don't curl-perhaps from its being let grow. I also thank you for the inscription of the date and name; and I will tell you why; I believe they are the only two or three words of your hand

Madame de Staal (See Memoire).

writing in my possession; for your letters I returned, and except the two words, or rather the one word, "Household," written twice in an old account book, I have no other. I burnt your last note, for two reasons-firstly, as it was written in a style not very agreeable; and Becondly, I wished to take your word without documents, which are the worldly resources of suspicious people.

I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere about Ada's birthday-the 10th of December, I believe. She will then be six, so that in about twelve more, I shall have some chance of meeting her-perhaps Booner if I am obliged to go to England by business or otherwise. Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or otherwise; every day which keeps us asunder should, after so long a period, rather soften our mutual feelings, which must always have one rallying point as long as our child exists, which I presume we both hope will be long after either of her parents.

The time which has elapsed since the separation has been consider. ably more than the whole brief period of our union, and the not much longer one of our prior acquaintance. We both made a bitter mistake, but now it is over, and irrecoverably so. For, at 33 on my part, and a few years less on yours, though it is no very extended period of life, still it is one when the habits and thoughts are generally so formed as to admit of no modification; and as we could not agree when younger, we should with difficulty do so now. I say all this because I own to you that, notwithstanding everything, I considered our re-union as not imposible for more than a year after the separation; but then, I gave up the hope entirely and for ever. But this very impossibility of re-union seemed to me at least a reason why, on all the few points of discussion which can arise between us, we should preserve the courtesies of life, and as much of its kindness as people who are never to meet may preserve perhaps more easily than nearer connectious. For my own part, I am violent, but not maliguant, for only fresh provocations can awaken my resentments.

To you, who are colder and more concentrate, I would just hint that you may sometimes mistake the depth of a cold anger for dignity and a worse feeling for duty. I assure you that I bear you now (whatever I may have done) no resentment whatever.

Remember that if you have injured me in aught, this forgiveness is something; and that if I have injured you, it is something more still, if it be true, as the moralists say, that the most offending are the least forgiving.

Whether the offence has been solely on my side, or reciprocal, or on yours chiefly, I have ceased to reflect upon any but two things-viz.: that you are the mother of my child and that we shall never meet again. I think if you also consider these two corresponding points with reference to myself it will be better for all three.-Yours ever,

NOEL BYRON.

XIV.

LORD BYRON AGAIN LEAVES ENGLAND.

Thus wrote the man whom the fops of London, affected young ladies, and exclusive society there-offended

with his plain speaking and undisguised contempt-would, with an hypocritical affectation of honourable feeling, have exposed as a monster to the horror of the married world. Proud islanders! Their trivial prating, so much the more tiresome since it was masked by gravity, wearied the mind of Byron, who, too great a poet to become a philosopher, could not oppose a heart hardened to the wounds of malice, the storin of libels, verses, journals, and caricatures of which he became the object, and which are an unfortunate concomitant of the more vaunted than real liberty of his country. Therefore had he declared himself subdued; and, departing from his home-his home no more, for without the heart's affection there is no home (1) he broke all ties which yet bound him to his natal soil (April 25, 1816); again he bids adieu to his native land and his child, and departs to return no

more.

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child? (2)
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart;
When late I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled,
And when we parted,-not as now we part,
But with a hope-&c.

Whither I know not,

I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none
Can be so wrapt up in thee;

I depart.

Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions blend,

And reach into thy heart,-when mine is cold;;
A token and a tone, e'en from thy father's mould.

To aid thy mind's development,-to watch
Thy dawn of little joys-to sit and see-
Almost thy very growth,-to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects,-wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss-
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;
Yet this was in my nature, as it is,

I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

Don Juan, Canto 3.

Childe Harold, Canto 3,

XV.

TRAVELS OF LORD BYRON.

An exile from his country, without the consolation of the martyr, discontented with himself and those about him, and at war with the world, which he fancied he could do without, behold him again the poet, the headstrong, sombre, pensive poet, and regard the poetry he is writing and which he shall hereafter write.

He visits the field of Waterloo, trampling on the dust of a great empire; from Belgium to Coblenz, thence to Switzerland, where he visits the field of Morat, one of the few sites where man can contemplate the horrid trophies of victory without feeling shame for the victors; climbs to the Dent de Jarman, traverses the Rhine, sails along the lakes, converses with Madame de Stael, searches for traces of the memory of Voltaire, of Rousseau, of Gibbon, and amid the woods, still mindful of the melancholy loves of the "Nouvelle Heloise," composes the "Prisoner of Chillon." The tranquil innocence of the landscape here is soothing to his stormy but wearied spirit.

Clear placid Leman, thy contracted lake, (1)
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me with its stillness to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe

Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
The breath which made him wretched; yet who
Knew how to make madness beautiful, and cast
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they passed
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.

His life was one long war with self-sought foes,
Or friends by himself banish'd; for his mind
Had grown suspicion's sanctuary, and chose
For its own cruel sacrifice the kind

'Gainst whom he raged with fury, strange and blind,
But he was frenzied,—wherefore, who may know?

&o.